


All The Stars That We Can See

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Allusions to graphic violence, An unfortunate pigeon, But he deserves it, DeathBucky, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Terrible things occur to Alexander Pierce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:23:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: "You ever been to Coney Island?"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/gifts), [SulaSafeRoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SulaSafeRoom/gifts).



> Leveragehunters said 'DeathBucky', and this... just... happened.  
> Because what would happen to Steve without Bucky? How long would he last?  
> And if Death came for him, in the form of Bucky, would he take his hand and lead him into the endless night?  
> Of course not. They'd go to the seaside and ride the rollercoaster.
> 
> A thousand thank you's to Queenofthewip's for getting flustered, Sulasaferoom for getting excitable, and my little Vixen for screaming at me the whole damn time.

The room is hot and dark, the curtains drawn. A single lamp lit on the bedside table. The air thick with fever, rank and sour.  
The woman, the mother, _Sarah_ , sits on a chair beside the bed. Her head bowed, a rosary bead clamped between thumb and forefinger, fingertips bone white.  
The figure wrapped up in blankets is still, a mop of sweat darkened blonde hair and a thin ribcage that barely moves with each rattled breath.  
Sarah does not look up when he enters the room. She does not see him.  
He sits at the foot of the bed and lays a hand on the covers. Beneath his fingers, under coarse wool, the child shivers.  
It is not much of a life, under his hands. Not much at all.  
He feels the twisted spine. The obstructed lungs. The damaged heart still beating.  
He cradles the heart in his hand, smooths his thumb over the muscle until it remembers how to beat again.  
“Not now,” he says firmly.  
The child's eyes are blue. Blue like the ocean. He smiles and puts a finger to his lips.  
_Shh_.  
The child nods once, and he stands, leaving the way he came.  
He hears the child whispering to his mother as he steps back. Hears the heart beating, steady and true.

There are many forms of divining. A competent _Augur_ may find wisdom in the flight of starlings or the gait of a rooster, a _cleromance_ inby the casting of bones or the fall of a dice.  
Alexander, like his forefathers, was a _haruspex_ , though obtaining a black rooster or a white dove was no longer as simple as passing a coin to a trader on the temple steps.  
Little has really changed, he thinks, handing over a folded bill to the nervous man clutching the cardboard box.  
It’s a rock pigeon, rather than a white dove. It will have to do.  
He takes the box up to the roof at dusk.  
He is quick and skilled, the blade sharp, blood black in the moonlight.  
He smiles, sharp and thin, like a cruel blade.  
“He has returned.”

The walls are the same, he thinks absently. He has been here before.  
Not this room. But he has stood within these walls and held a fierce little heart in his hand.  
The room is dark and humid, the walls pressing in. The sharp tang of blood in the air.  
The woman, the mother, Sarah, lies in the bed. Wrapped in blankets, a rosary clenched in her hand, fingertips bone white as they press a bead. Her lips move but she makes no sound.  
In the chair beside the bed is a fierce little heart wrapped in skin and bones. His eyes are blue. Blue like the ocean.  
Neither man nor child, too much of one and not enough of the other. He looks up and _sees_ , eyes wide.  
The chair tips over as he gets to his feet, his fierce little heart pounding.  
“You,” he whispers.  
A nod as he steps into the room.  
“Stay away from her,” the boy snarls, stepping forward.  
He raises a hand, placating, and sits on the edge of the bed, motioning for the boy to take a seat. He rights his chair and sits down, shoulders tense, eyes wary.  
“I know you,” the boy says.  
He smiles. “Yes.”  
“Who are you?” the boys asks, fist tightly clenched.  
He smiles again. Patient. Infinitely patient. “You know me, Steve.”  
The boy, Steve, pales. He shakes his head.  
“You can’t have her,” he whispers. Fierce little thing.  
“I don’t want her.”  
“Then why are you here?”  
“Because it is her time.”  
Steve gets to his feet, restless. Scared.  
“You can’t take her,” he says, pushing fingers into his short blond hair.  
He smiles. Tenderly. Fierce little thing.  
“And what would happen if I don’t?” he asks softly.  
Steve doesn’t answer. He looks at his mother, still and silent.  
“Her lungs are filled with blood. She cannot breathe. She is in pain.” He leans forward, looks closely at Steve. “She is in so much pain.”  
Steve turns away, reaches across the bedclothes to touch his mother's fingers, still clamped tightly around her rosary bead.  
He moves closer, lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder.  
“Let me take care of her, Steve.”  
Steve shakes his head. “She’s all I got.”  
He brushes fingers through Steve’s hair, wipes away the tears with a thumb.  
“No, she ain’t.”  
Steve closes his eyes. When he opens them, his mother is gone.  
“C’mon, Steve.”  
Gentle hands pull Steve to his feet, lead him out of the dark, humid room.  
“Sit,” a kind voice murmurs, and Steve does so.  
“Drink,” words spoken softly as the glass is pushed into his hands.  
Steve swallows the cold water.  
“Come here,” arms wrap around his narrow shoulders.  
Steve buries his face in his hands and lets the tears fall.

“She ain’t in there, y’know,” he says softly, cradling his cup of coffee. “What made Sarah, what made your _Ma_ , she’s moved on. What’s left ain’t her. Not any more.”  
Steve nods, staring at the dregs in his cup. The coffee burns his throat, bitter and sour.  
He rinses out his cup in the sink and sets it on the counter.  
“You’ll be okay, Steve?” he asks, voice filled with concern.  
Steve holds his cup closer to his chest, the ceramic cooling in his hands.  
“What do I call you?” Steve asks finally.  
He smiles. “Anything you want, Steve.”  
“I can’t call you… that,” Steve says with a grimace.  
Sunday’s papers are spread over the coffee table in front of him. Ink sketches of space men and rocket ships. Outlandish, impossible things.  
“You don’t look right,” Steve says quietly. “You don’t look like a heap of bones.”  
He laughs, a soft, low chuckle. “Neither do you.”  
Steve turns and watches the impossible thing drying his hands on a dishcloth.  
“Bucky,” Steve says under his breath.  
“Stay outta trouble, kid,” Bucky says softly. And is gone.

_The Widow shakes her head, exasperated.  
“What are you playing at?”  
“Nothing,” he answers. “Nothing.”  
She snorts, unconvinced.  
“C’mon, you think I don’t know about that archer of yours?” he says.  
The Widow scowls, her red lips thinning.  
“Be careful,” is all she will say._

The man is tall and ruggedly handsome. Older, though Steve could not say for certain how old. His suit is pressed and well fitted, jarring amongst the cluster of deadbeats and down and outs. His eyes are sharp and pale and do not waver.  
“Already found himself a young man? Fast mover, isn’t he?”  
He smiles at Steve, charming, almost boyish, falling into the line for the Municipal Lodging House alongside him.  
Steve looks at him warily, wrapping his threadbare coat tightly across his chest. It is ill fitting now, hanging loosely from his narrow shoulders. The man smiles again. His teeth are sharp and white.  
“You stink of him,” he says, his eyes like broken glass.  
Steve takes a few steps back and pushes his way out of the queue, making his way along East 25th street. He starts walking south towards Washington Square park.  
After a few minutes the man fall into step beside him.  
“Alexander,” he says by way of introduction.  
Steve does not answer. He walks faster. The man does not alter his leisurely pace down the quiet street and nor does he fall behind.  
“I’m looking for our mutual friend,” Alexander says.  
Steve keeps his eyes to the ground. If he had been looking up he might have seen the hand closing around his throat.  
Alexander lifts him by his throat and slams him into the nearest wall. Steve struggles, kicking his feet, fingers scrabbling at the hand throttling him. Alexander shakes him bodily and shoves him back against the brickwork, pressing up against him.  
Steve cannot breathe. He cannot breathe and he cannot escape and he cannot fight.  
“You know what he is,” Alexander growls.  
Steve doesn’t answer, tries to dig his fingernails into Alexander's wrist. he can’t get a purchase. Dark and white spots spark behind his eyes.  
Alexander loosens his grip, letting Steve slide down the wall, the rough stone scraping his spine.  
“I have a vision,” Alexander says softly, his voice a low rumble as he pushes Steve back against the wall. “A new world. A better world.”  
Steve gasps for air, trembling hands pushing against the palm splayed against his chest.  
“And I need him to make it happen.”  
“Go to hell,” Steve gasps.  
Alexander laughs, lifting him up until they are face to face.  
“I’ve not even made you an offer yet,” he smiles, his eyes cold.  
“You got nothing I want,” Steve snarls.  
Alexander tuts and gives him another shake.  
“No?” he laughs. “Wealth? Women?” Alexander tilts his head, looks closely and smiles. “Someone lost to Him already?” he says finally. “I could bring her back.”  
Steve kicks and struggles, frantic.  
“I could give her back to you. All you have to do is take me to him.”  
Steve yelps and twists out of his grip, stumbling when his feet hit the ground and he collapses to his knees. Bile burns the back of his throat as he curls in on himself.  
Alexander squats down on the sidewalk next to Steve, pulling a card out of his pocket.  
“Sometimes to build a better world you have to tear the old one down,” he says as he tucks the card into Steve’s coat.  
Alexander straightens up, tugging his shirt cuffs and straightening his tie.  
“Think about my offer,” he says amiably. “I will find him with or without you.”  
He walks away.  
Steve curls up on the sidewalk. He cannot breathe. He cannot escape. He cannot fight.

_“Listen to this,” the Widow says with a smirk.  
“Aw, don’t start,” Bucky mutters.  
“One day in every century death takes on mortal flesh, better to comprehend the lives taken, to taste the bitter tang of mortality.”  
“Where’d you come up with that bullshit?”  
“It’s here. Written right here.”  
“Fuckin’ depressing is what it is.”_

It’s snowing. The flakes fall, large and slow and heavy, settling on the dying grass and the bare limbed trees.  
Bucky zips up his leather jacket and shoves his hands in his pockets. The lake sparkles in the early dawn. The flakes melt on the footpath. The storm will pass, and the snow will be gone with the sunrise.  
He follows the path to a cluster of trees. There are figures gathered under the bare branches. Some moving around to keep warm, some still, bundled up in blankets.  
They do not look up as he walks past. They do not see him.  
At the base of an elm, half hidden under the canopy is a shape curled up under a thin woolen blanket.  
Bucky sits down at the edge of the blanket and swears under his breath. He peels back the faded green wool and brushes his finger through dark blond hair.  
“Hey, Stevie,” he murmurs.  
There is movement under his hands. His eyes are blue. Blue like the ocean.  
“Bucky?”  
He brushes the back of his fingers along Steve’s jaw. The skin cold and damp.  
Steve struggles into a sitting position, his movements slow and uncoordinated. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and buries his face in his neck. He’s cold, far too cold.  
Bucky doesn’t hesitate and gathers Steve up in his arms, murmuring softly as Steve shivers against him.  
“Knew you’d come,” Steve mumbles, his voice slurred.  
There are some who welcome him, some who rush to his embrace. The sick and the hurting and the weary. It should be simple. It should be simple to kiss him on the brow and show him the way. Watch him stumble on the threshold and be gone.  
Bucky grips him tighter. It should be simple but it is not.  
He pulls Steve to his feet, holding him steady and sliding off the threadbare coat. Steve doesn’t protest, shivering in his shirtsleeves while Bucky takes off his jacket and eases his arms through the sleeves, pulling the zip up and straightening the collar around his throat.  
The black leather makes his pale skin almost translucent. Red and blue veins threading under the skin.  
“Someone was looking for you,” Steve whispers.  
“C’mon, let's get you some coffee,” Bucky says, sliding an arm around Steve’s narrow waist and leading him along the path. Snowflakes catch in his hair as he takes step after shuffling step, arms linked loosely around Bucky's neck, numb feet heavy in outsized shoes stuffed with newspaper.

Bucky knows the waitress in the diner. He smiles and calls her Dotie while ordering scrambled eggs for Steve and coffee for the two of them. She blushes under the attention, wishing them a nice day when she brings the eggs and coffee.  
“You know her?” Steve mutters, poking at his eggs warily.  
“I know everyone,” Bucky replies. “Eat slow. Don’t finish ‘em if you can’t.”  
Steve takes small bites while Bucky drinks his coffee, flashing a smile at the waitress when she comes over to refill his cup.  
“You sure like coffee,” Steve mutters as Bucky sips his third cupful.  
“I love coffee,” Bucky says with a grin. “Smells like acid, tastes like ashes. Burns goin’ down,” Bucky smacks his lips. “Better than photosynthesis or sleeping in hydrothermal vents.”  
Steve stares at him, and remembers what he is.  
“You been doing this a long time, then?” he tries to keep his voice from shaking. He fails.  
Bucky shrugs. “In one form or another.”  
Steve pushes his half eaten plate to one side. Bucky sets down his cup and pushes it across the counter towards Steve, who wraps his hands around it gratefully and takes a sip.  
They sit in silence, each watching the other.  
Steve clears his throat. “So… what happens now?” he asks quietly.  
Bucky rests his elbow on the table, his chin propped in the palm of his hand.  
“Are there… gates or something?”  
Bucky smiles lazily, eyes half-lidded.  
“Fine then,” Steve snorts. There is colour in his cheeks.  
Bucky sits back and pushes his fingers through his hair, tucks a long strand of dark hair behind his ear. He watches Steve and smiles.  
“You ever been to Coney Island?”

They take the subway. No one asks them for a ticket as they sit on one of the narrow benches, pressed together from shoulder to knee. The steady motion of the carriage and the warm weight pressed against him makes Steve doze off. He wakes with a start when they reach their destination, his head pillowed on Bucky’s shoulder, fingers tangled in his hair.  
They walk down Sitwell avenue and Bucky leads them to the gaudily painted entrance to Luna Park, pointing and laughing at the attractions.  
As they make their way through the crowds, no one jostles them. No one walks into them, or shoves them. No hawkers try and get their attention. They enter the exhibits without being asked to pay.  
“They can’t see us,” Steve says finally. Bucky snorts, stepping aside as a group of children barrel past.  
“Nope,” he says cheerfully.  
“Are we invisible?” Steve pales and puts a hand to his chest. “Am I already...?”  
Bucky bursts out laughing and throws an arm around Steve’s shoulders, dragging him along the concourse. He gives Steve a gentle shake.  
“We ain’t invisible. We’re here.” he waves to the crowds. “They can’t see us ‘cause they don’t want to. It unsettles them. C’mon let’s get a hot dog”  
Bucky leads the way to an umbrella covered wheeled cart and buys two dogs smeared with vivid yellow mustard, shoving one into Steve’s hands.  
They walk along the sidewalk, heading out of the park and down to the beach. Steve manages half of his hot dog before passing the rest over to Bucky.  
“Is the yellow stuff supposed to hurt when you eat it?” Bucky ponders, taking a bite.  
“Yeah, it’s mustard,” Steve says absently, staring down the beach at the crashing waves.  
They cross the sand and watch the people walking along the beach, Steve leaning into Bucky a little, arm still loosely wrapped around him as they walk along the sand.  
Bucky flinches and looks up at the boardwalk.  
“Aw, crap,” he mutters under his breath and starts walking quickly to the crowded path.  
They reach the walkway and join the crowds, moving quickly along the waterfront to an ice cream cart. There is a soft cry and a flurry of movement.  
The crowds part for Bucky and Steve.  
A family out for the day. A girl, no more than seven lying on the boards.  
She is shivering, her breathing shallow. Someone is screaming for help.  
Bucky winces. “Poor kid,” he murmurs.  
“What’s going on, Buck?” Steve whispers.  
“Anaphylaxis,” Bucky says softly. “Peanut allergy.”  
The girl's lips are turning blue.  
“Buck, do something,” Steve grips a handful of Bucky’s shirt. His hands are shaking.  
“It doesn’t work like that, Stevie,” Bucky says softly. He covers Steve’s hand with his own, brushes fingers over white knuckles.  
“She’s just a kid.” Steve pulls at his shirt.  
“It is the way it is,” Bucky says gently, his thumb tracing circles on the back of Steve’s hand.  
“Bucky,” Steve whispers. “Please.”  
Bucky rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated huff. “Fine, we’ll find a racist with emphysema or something.”  
The girl coughs and vomits on the boards. She cries out and is gathered up in her mother's arms.  
Bucky steps back into the crowds, pulling Steve with him. Steve lets himself be led away from the gathered onlookers and along the walkway.  
“There has to be a balance, Steve.”  
He stops, looking straight ahead. There is an elderly man looking out to sea. He turns, scanning the crowd and stops when he sees Bucky. He pales, but doesn’t look away.  
Bucky walks towards him, his arm slipping from around Steve’s shoulders.  
The loss of contact makes Steve shiver and he follows, keeping close to Bucky’s side until they are stood face to face to face with the man. He slowly straightens up, standing tall and proud.  
“Sir,” Bucky says quietly.  
The old man gives him the once over.  
“You’re not what I was expecting,” he says ruefully.  
Bucky grins at him. “Never am.”  
The old man looks over at Steve, pressed to Bucky’s side, and makes no comment. Bucky holds out his hand.  
“C’mon William. Time to go,” he says gently.  
The man hesitates before reaching out, and Bucky grips frail, liver spotted fingers in his warm hands.  
For a moment the world shivers. Steve blinks, his eyes blurring. He can see the old man crumpled on the floor, people move around them, some rushing forward, others craning their necks to see.  
Steve blinks again and the man is standing, tall and strong and handsome, hands clasped with Bucky’s. He’s laughing. the sound low and sweet.

Bucky steps backwards, his hands empty.  
There are raised voices, calls for help.  
Bucky steps back, pulling Steve along with him, moving away from the press of bodies until there is sand under their feet.  
They walk down to the shoreline, down to meet the tide. The waves lap at their feet, soaking into their shoes.  
Bucky watches the horizon, his arm back around Steve’s narrow frame. Steve rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder, fingers twisted in his shirt.  
“People die all the time,” Steve murmurs, barely audible in the crashing of the waves. “So why are you here? Shouldn’t you be..?”  
Steve lets go of Bucky’s shirt and waves his hand vaguely before letting it drop to his side.  
“I’m just an aspect, Steve,” Bucky says gently. “I don’t kill or pass judgement. I’m just there to show people the door when the times comes.”  
“Like… a bellhop?” Steve says quietly. Bucky snorts.  
“Yeah, or one of those fancy elevator operators you get in department stores. I just lead people to the right floor and keep things flowing.” He kicks at the sand.  
“Al Capone must’ve given you trouble,” Steve mutters ruefully.  
Bucky bursts out laughing, pressing his hand to his chest like it’ll crack open.  
“What? Lucky Luciano too, I bet?” Steve says with a half smile.  
That sets Bucky off again. He wipes his eyes and catches his breath.  
“Ahh, no,” he says, still chuckling. “Not my area. That’s all the Widow,”  
“The Widow?” Steve raises his eyebrows.  
“Yeah, the wrongful ones, the violent ones. They’re hers,” he smiles again. “I mostly deal in natural causes and dumb punks.”  
Steve gives him a shove. “Jerk.”  
Bucky starts walking along the sand, back towards the boardwalk.  
“C’mon, punk. Let's go check out the cyclone.”

Steve sits on the park bench, his head between his knees. Bucky sits beside him, rubbing soothing lines down his spine with the flat of his hand.  
“You gonna be sick again?” he asks gently.  
Steve shakes his head, the movement making him hiccup and wince.  
“You’d think they’d make those things outta something stronger than wood,” Bucky muses while Steve whimpers. “All those turns and rickety little fences, you’d think the car would just fly right off the edge.”  
Steve lets out a low whine and Bucky snorts. “You okay, Stevie?”  
“Please stop talking,” Steve groans.  
Bucky laughs and pats his back.  
“Think you could manage a soda?”  
Steve considers for a moment before nodding. Bucky ruffles a hand through his unkempt blond hair and wanders off down the promenade.  
Steve wraps his arms around his waist and hiccups again. He stares down at his worn shoes and suppresses a whimper, closing his eyes.  
He is dimly aware of approaching footsteps, coming to a halt in front of him. He opens his eyes and blinks at the polished Italian leather shoes in front of him.  
Bucky wears heavy workers boots, scuffed brown leather.  
Steve sits up slowly, taking in the pressed, well fitting suit, the rugged features that were once handsome.  
Alexander smiles at him, sharp like a knife.

Steve is on his feet and running, pushing through the crowds. People jostle and shove back, knocking him to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, forcing himself to move.  
Move he thinks, following Surf avenue, right onto Stillwell.  
His throat is burning, his chest aches. He can’t breathe.  
He see’s the Metro up ahead, slips through the throng and through the ticket barrier, dimly aware of someone shouting at him. He keeps moving, though his legs are burning and his throat is closing up. Sweat soaking his hair, running down his back.  
He stumbles onto the carriage, collapses into a seat. He can hear the high whistling of his breath, the rattle in his chest. His legs are shaking, his body limp and useless.  
He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to control his breathing, tries to get air into his lungs, massaging his chest with a shaking hand.  
“Impressive,” a voice, low and rough, murmurs in his ear.  
Steve opens his eyes, can’t help the low whine that escapes his throat.  
Alexander smiles at him, sharp like a knife.

Steve is dragged from the metro, kicking and screaming. No one hears him, or sees him or comes to his aid. Alexander shakes him, roughly, digging his fingers into the worn leather sleeves of Steve’s jacket, _Bucky’s jacket_ , and slamming him onto the sidewalk. Steve cracks his skull against the concrete and the world goes blurry, white dots in his vision, as he is pulled to his feet and dragged through the streets.  
A door opens and he tumbles down concrete steps. The door slams shut.

Steve opens his eyes. For a moment he thinks his eyes are still shut, listening in the dark for the soft click of his eyelids, the twitch of muscle, the brush of lashes against his cheeks.  
His head aches. The back of his head is damp and tacky. He sits up and feels the world spin. He swallows, his throat dry.  
The floor is damp. He can hear water dripping somewhere in the dark. He stretches out a hand and feels his way along the floor, inching slowly on his hands and knees along the wet concrete until he reaches a wall, the plaster crumbling under his fingers. He follows the wall, flakes of paint catching under his fingernails until he reaches a corner.  
He tugs his jacket, _Bucky’s jacket_ , tightly around his chest, folds his arms and hunches down. He waits. 

The light is blinding after so much darkness. Steve flinches and turns away, his eyes watering. A single bulb swings from a cord high above. A slice of noise and sunlight from the top of the stairs. A door slamming shut, a key scraping in the lock. The room dims again as Steve’s eyes adjust to the light.  
Alexander tucks the key into his pocket and walks down the steps, unhurried and at ease.  
He crosses the damp floor and looks down at Steve.  
“Why you?” he ponders out loud. “What makes you so special?”  
“Not special,” the words catch in Steve's throat and he coughs. “Just a kid from Brooklyn,” he rasps out.  
Alexander smirks at him and turns away, circling the room.  
There are chalk marks on the walls. Signs and symbols and streaks of blood.  
“I’m not a monster,” the man says softly.  
Steve chokes out a laugh, his breath catching. He coughs, pressing his hand to his chest. His throat burns.  
“Can you really look out there,” Alexander waves to the door, “and say you are happy with this world?”  
He looks over at Steve, hands folded behind his back. “The Third Reich? The camps? The gas chambers? The Soviets bombing Finland? Franco? Mussolini...”  
“Shut up,” Steve whispers.  
Alexander shoves his hands into his pockets. “If you could, with a wave of your hand, rid the world of them,” he looks closely at Steve. “Wouldn’t you do it? Make the world a better place?”  
Steve shakes his head. “It ain’t our choice to make,” he rasps.  
Alexander tilts his head. “It could be,” he says gently.  
Steve snorts. “That’s not how you change the world,” he says slowly. The words stick in his throat. He swallows, tries to catch his breath. “You do that you’re no better than the rest of ‘em.”  
Alexander continues his circle of the room, running his fingers over the chalk streaked walls.  
“And how would you do it? Education? Free health care? A band of men, noble and true to fight the forces of evil?”  
Steve presses a hand to his chest, trying to massage away the ache.  
“Yeah,” he breathes.  
Alexander sighs and looks disappointed, flicking plaster crumbs off his fingers.  
“I tried to reason with you.” Alexander pulls a knife out of his belt, long and sharp. “We will have to do this the old fashioned way.”  
Steve presses back against the wall. A wrongful death. A violent death. He smiles at Alexander.  
He glances around the room. _The Widow_ , Bucky had called her. He sees a figure in the shadows behind Alexander. A glimpse of red hair. Cherry lips stretched wide.  
It’s a price he’ll pay, and pay gladly to keep Bucky safe.  
Steve turns to Alexander.  
“Go to hell,” he gasps.

_“You want so see this,” the Widow says.  
“Busy,” he replies, searching.  
“You really want to see this.”  
The Widow has something in her hands. Black leather, blood soaked into the collar._

Steve gets to his feet slowly, bracing himself against the crumbling wall until he can stand up straight. He peels off the jacket, biting back whimpers.  
He aches. His head hurts, his body hurts. His lungs burn and his throat feels raw.  
He faces the shadows, the blood red smile.  
“Make sure he gets this?” he asks softly, and tosses the jacket into the darkness.  
He does not hear it hit the floor.  
Alexander look around. He can see nothing in the shadows. There is nothing in the shadows.  
“Is he here?” he steps closer, blade out to the side.  
“No,” Steve gives him a twisted little grin. “He’s not coming.”  
Alexander snarls and lunges forward, grabbing him by the throat and twisting him around, back pressed up against Alexander's chest, fingers still clamped around his throat. Steve struggles until he feels the sharp blade scratch across his ribs.  
“Show yourself,” Alexander snarls into shadows. “Or I slice him open.”  
The room is silent but for the sound of Steve’s laboured breathing.  
There is movement in the darkness.  
Alexander pushes the blade into Steve’s stomach and drags it sideways. Steve lets out a soft sound, barely a hiss, and crumples to his knees.  
_Why doesn’t it hurt?_ he wonders as he tips forward, grazing his hands on the rough concrete. He tries to sit up, but his body won’t behave. His arms won’t hold his weight.  
_I thought it would be cold_. He’s shaking. Not shivering, not trembling, but full body tremors send his feet skittering on the floor, his hands clenching and unclenching.  
He can hear screaming, high and thin. _Is that me?_ He clenches his teeth. There is screaming, broken off. A strange sound, wet and brittle.  
A sharp odour, copper and salt. Bright lights strung across his vision.  
And silence.

Steve blinks. His eyes are gritty and sore. He feels strange, numb and oversensitive. Hands, warm and large, push him onto his back. They brush his shoulders, his hair, his wrists. They tear his shirt, old fabric ripping easily.  
The hands wrap around parts of him that should never have hands on them. He jolts and lets out a gasp.  
“Stevie?”  
He blinks until his vision clears, until he can see the face looking down at him. He smiles. he knows that face. He’s known it all his life.  
“Buck?” he murmurs.  
Warm hands on his cheeks. On his jaw. Pressed against his scalp.  
“Shh, darlin’,” Bucky whispers. “I need you to keep still.”  
Bucky is kneeling over him, one hand pressed against his chest. He leans close and reaches down with the other hand.  
“This is gonna feel weird. Don’t move.”  
There is an odd tugging sensation in the small of his back. A shifting in his sternum. A sharpness in his ribs.  
A low moan sounds at his side. Steve turns his head far enough to see a shape in the corner, a bundle of sticks and rags. It whimpers again and Bucky straightens up, scowling.  
“Go away,” he snaps at the bundle, before bowing his head returning to his labours.  
When Steve looks again the shape has gone, the room silent but for the wet, sucking sounds as Bucky works.  
There is an odd tug at his hips, and he feels himself slide a few inches across the floor, then pull back again. He looks down at Bucky. Sausages he thinks, a little deliriously.  
He tries to sit up and Bucky presses a hand to his chest, red and wet to the elbow.  
“Hold still, you dumb punk,” Bucky mutters.  
Steve lies back. The floor is tacky and smells sweetly metallic.  
“Deep breath,” Bucky mutters and Steve breathes slow and deep.  
Steve lets himself be rocked from side to side. He feels pressure low in his gut, a squeezing sensation under his ribs. He hiccups.  
“Sorry, that was me,” Bucky mutters. Steve giggles.  
“Don’t do that, it looks weird!”  
Steve can’t help it and giggles some more. He reaches down until he can feel Bucky's arms, wraps his fingers around the slick flesh and squeezes.  
“Just another minute,” Bucky tells him, but doesn’t pull away.

“Okay, let's get you up,” Bucky sits back, brushing the hair out of his eyes.  
Steve lets himself be lifted up by the shoulders and pulled into a sitting position, resting his head on Bucky's shoulder while his ruined shirt is peeled away, fingers brushing across the smooth skin of his stomach.  
Bucky fumbles around beside him and shakes out a bundle of leather, pushing Steve’s arms through the sleeves.  
“I just gave it back,” Steve murmurs as Bucky straightens the collar and pulls the front closed.  
“Well I’m lending it to you again,” Bucky says gently.  
Steve watches as Bucky tugs at the cuffs and smooths down the lapels.  
“You okay, Buck?” he asks softly.  
Bucky sniffs and shakes his head.  
“Nearly lost you. Didn’t care for it.”  
Steve leans forward and rests his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, feels large warm hands tracing his ribs.  
Steve brushes the tips of his fingers against the line of Bucky’s jaw. Bucky lets out a soft sound, low in his throat. He wraps his arms around Steve's waist and crushes their mouths together, clumsy and desperate and sweet.  
Steve tangles his fingers in Bucky’s dark hair and tugs, trading soft, open mouthed kisses as Bucky tugs him onto his lap, hands moving restlessly over pale skin, tracing up the even length of his spine and the cradle of his hips.  
Words are whispered, low and sweet between presses of mouths and teasing tongues. Endearments gasped as teeth graze against skin. Promises murmured between the hot, sweet slide of tongues.  
_Fierce little heart_ , Bucky breathes, smile pressed against warm skin. 

_Close to death_ , they had told her the first time Sarah Rogers called the doctor for her son. She sat at his bedside, rosary bead clamped between her fingers, while the litany of medical issues was recited. Scoliosis, asthma, diabetes, heart defect. Any one of them would kill him, sooner or later. Probably sooner.  
Close to death.

Bucky stares into the void. It had been pretty good, all things considered. He had done his duty, and here he stood, at the end of all things, watching the last lights winking out one by one.  
There is movement behind him, a low rattling sound.  
He turns and sees the shape in the darkness, little more than rags and bones.  
“Oh, it’s you. Wondered when you’d show up.”  
He walks over to the huddled mass and squats down in front of it.  
It rattles at him, weak and trembling.  
“Well, here it is, the end. You took the long road getting here.”  
It clatters weakly and Bucky cocks his head, curious.  
“Oh no, you’re not the last. The end is just the beginning,” he waves to the abyss. “See all this is over, yeah. But something will take its place. Something new will happen.”  
He looks out as the last light fades.  
“As one thing ends another begins.” He grins. “I wonder what it’ll be this time?”  
The shape rattles and Bucky shrugs.  
“Well, this was always the worst part. I mean, it’s good to have finished the duty. Lay down your burdens and rest, weary traveller blah blah,” Bucky scratches the back of his neck absently. “But an infinity waiting for sentient life to evolve? Gets lonely.”  
The bundle shifts and Bucky lets out a sharp bark of laughter.  
“No. Not gonna happen.”  
He looks down at the pitiful form and reaches out, resting a hand on the ragged edge. It sighs and slumps against him.  
“Go to sleep, Alexander Pierce. You creepy little fucker.”  
The last remnants of Alexander Pierce shudder and fade away.  
He straightens up, wiping his hand on his jeans.  
It has been a good universe, all things considered.  
He sighs and stretches, lifting his hands over his head and yawning before letting his shoulders slump.  
Done.  
“Buck?”  
Bucky glances around.  
“Hey Stevie.”  
Steve walks closer, taller now, after that whole messy business. Broader too, filling out the ancient leather jacket that he insists, after so much time, is just a loan. He still tucks into to Bucky’s side, hand resting on his hip while Bucky wraps an arm around his shoulders. They fit together.  
“ All done?”  
“Yup.” He smiles as Steve kisses him. “All done.”  
Steve kisses him again, hands sliding under fabric to brush against warm skin.  
“So what do we do now?”  
“Spiral outwards, expanding, I guess.”  
Bucky takes Steve's hands in his and moves him into a clumsy box step.  
“C’mon, Buck. You know I can’t dance,” Steve laughs.  
“Plenty of time to practice,” Bucky retorts. “Like that song.”  
Bucky spins them around.  
“I can’t sing either,” Steve murmurs.  
“Neither can I,” Bucky sniggers. “Don’t let it stop you.”  
Bucky throws back his head and starts to sing “The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding…”  
They spin and they turn and they trip on each others feet, their voices singing, terrible singing, all that is heard in the infinite.

_The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding  
In all of the directions it can whizz  
As fast as it can go, the speed of light you know  
Twelve million miles a minute and that's the fastest speed there is  
So remember when you’re feeling very small and insecure  
How amazingly unlikely is your birth  
And pray that there’s intelligent life somewhere up in space  
because there’s bugger all down on earth_


End file.
